


The Wake

by Zelda148



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 12:29:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelda148/pseuds/Zelda148
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sherlock's wake and nobody is coping very well.<br/>(When I say major character death, I am referring to that of Sherlock)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wake

He smiles wanly at someone he doesn't recognise, making small talk but not really listening. His eyes glaze over an his gaze drifts to Mrs Hudson, stood by the counter making endless cups of tea. She catches his eye and brings him over a mug, pushing the warm china into his trembling hands.

"Sit down, dear. You're shaking."

"Come with me." The light reaches his eyes as his lips turn up at the corners and holds a hand out.

"Oh no. I've got to make tea John." She totters back to the counter and fills the kettle.

"Excuse me." He slips past someone, another stranger. Slowly settling on the sofa, bullet holes still in the wall behind him. Resting one foot on his knee he sips his tea and looking around the room, so deafeningly quiet yet filled with babbling people. The conversation surrounding him is hollow and forced, the voices empty and words ill-fitting to the atmosphere.

"He was wonderful Greg, it's such a shame." A balding man is chatting mindlessly to Lestrade, someone John doesn't recognise.

"Yes, if you say so." The words are clearly going in one ear and out the other as Lestrade nurses a cup of tea and makes his way over to John, seating himself on the sofa next to him. The man keeps talking, ignorant that no one is listening, reminiscing about his case.

"You must miss him." Patronising tones can be heard from the other side of the room where a dark-skinned woman is looking down her nose at a bleary-eyed Molly. "Such dreadful business, the fraud and suicide and everything."

"He wasn't a fraud." Molly's words are soft and unassuming, making John wonder how they reach him.

"Well, you think that if it makes you feel better." The woman's smile is tight-lipped, as if she is speaking to child.

"I'm not just saying that to feel better. He wasn't a fraud." Her words are stronger this time, more imposing and she turns on her heel, walking swiftly away from the woman. She flops down in a unladylike manner on John's other side, sighing as she does and earning knowing glances from Lestrade and John.

They remain seated like that, their cups being refilled with tea the second they're emptied, as the people mill around them. They make occasional remarks or responses to comments of praise or criticism but without thought. The silence between them is amicable and comforting, not needing words to express the sentiment that there are no words to describe their shared pain.

Understanding that no amount of words will replace the insessent chattering they're longing for, the chatter that continued even in the absence of a listener, they drink their tea and the guests drift out of the house one at a time until it is only them left. Mrs Hudson perches on the arm of the sofa, idly holding an empty tea-cup as the doorbell rings.

"Single pressure just under the half second." John turns his head, automatically using skills he hadn't realised he'd picked up. "Client? It can't be they'd have heard. I even put it on the blog."

He stands, his companions rising behind him and following him down the stairs. Opening the door slowly he reveals a young man, a teenager with a tan and freckles.

"I've been on holiday and when I got back…"

"Sherlock isn't here." John's voice is worn, sick of making pointless conversation with largely irrelevant people.

"Well, when will he be back?" The boy is eager, happy: unaware.

"He won't be, he's… dead." His voice breaks, barely choking out the final word. John closes the door unceremoniously in the boy's face and the tears come. Leaning against the wall and sinking to the floor he lets the sobs come pouring out and the comforting arms and whispers of reassurance surround him in a blanket of familiarity.

"We'll be okay. We will." The voice sounds like him, the surety, the confidence and for a second, just a second, it's as though he's there again.

 


End file.
